Now I feel bad about saying I didn't want to go home for so long. It's really obvious he misses me, which is really sweet. Like before Thanksgiving when he sent me flowers and I cried for fifteen minutes (I was a little hyperemotional that day, having been pulled over by the cops for talking on a cell phone that wasn't even in the car at the time).

To my surprise I am practically the only person in the writing grad program at SLC whose parents and/or other relatives didn't think getting an MFA and/or wanting to write books for a living a total waste of time. Either it's because I come from a family of readers (how many other Grandmas can you trade Margaret Atwood and Michael Chabon novels with?) or because I am really, really lucky.

Listening To: Moulin Rouge soundtrack